


Indelible

by MiaCooper



Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: 25 Days of Voyager, Accidental Marriage, Aliens Made Them Do It, All The Tropes, Assumed Relationship, Body Paint, F/M, I took the ridiculous parts of Isabo’s Shirt and made them better, Mutual Pining, Sharing a Bed, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, fight me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-29
Updated: 2020-01-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:54:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22015972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MiaCooper/pseuds/MiaCooper
Summary: She knows what’s to come, but reading it on a padd in dry diplomatic language is entirely different to being there. And the formalities on this planet will be particularly trying. They often are, when first contact results in assumptions she fails to correct.She really should know better by now. It’s not the first time her opening conversation with an alien dignitary has left them with the apparently indelible impression that Chakotay is her partner in more than just command.
Relationships: Chakotay/Kathryn Janeway
Comments: 121
Kudos: 302
Collections: 25 Days of Voyager (2019)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [laurita_ST](https://archiveofourown.org/users/laurita_ST/gifts), [ariella884](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ariella884/gifts).



> Everybody has an accidental marriage/alien bonding ritual story in them. Here’s mine.
> 
> Prompted by a conversation with @jhelenoftrek and a [video](https://ve.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_pinu6tcq4m1tt96at.mp4) made by @[leisylaura](https://leisylaura.tumblr.com/).

* * *

The banquet table is draped in richly coloured silks and laden with an array of dishes they’ve already sampled and found delicious. The lights are low and the conversation – what their universal translators manage to catch of it; the Ruaitan language has proved particularly challenging to interpret – has segued from diplomacy into more prosaic and personal topics. In fact their host, Presider Hartani, has just enquired after the plans for a generational voyage that he assumes they’ve made, both for the crew and for themselves, and at Kathryn’s somewhat frosty response has politely excused himself and turned to speak to another guest.

She leans in slightly to the man on her left and lowers her voice. “Have you ever wondered how we always seem to end up in these situations?”

Her dining companion’s fingers stray to his ear, and she bats them away in a gesture as natural as it is habitual. A gesture that’s indicative of all the tiny intimacies they share, and doubtless one of the reasons they do so frequently end up in these situations.

Not wanting to draw her attention to this fact for fear she’ll stop, he demurs, “I’m sure it’s just because we’re the two most senior officers. Why don’t you take a sick day next time? I could pretend to be married to Tuvok.”

She chuckles, as he’d intended, and pats his thigh under the table. “Tuvok would find an eminently logical reason to get out of it. And besides, I think I’d like to stick you with Tom. I’m sure this,” she waves her free hand, vaguely indicating the room, “is his fault somehow, and it would be good punishment for both of you.”

“What did I do?” he feigns dismay.

She ignores him. “And that would leave me to entertain B’Elanna …” at the gleam in his eye, she smirks, “I thought that idea might interest you. Maybe I’ll take _her_ to the next one of these functions.”

“More likely B’Elanna would take _you_ ,” he snorts, then at her widened eyes he offers a chastened, “Sorry, Kathryn. That was inappropriate.”

“Yes, it was, Commander,” she replies primly. There’s a sparkle in her eye as she adds, “I’m insulted you think I couldn’t hold my own in that particular situation.”

He laughs out loud, drawing the attention of several of their neighbours at the table. The presider’s second-in-charge, Ordanelle Nuella, smiles indulgently at the way Kathryn’s hand rises from beneath the table to curl around his upper arm, and when her glance crosses Chakotay’s she sends him the faintest of winks.

“Did that woman just _wink_ at you?” Kathryn whispers when Nuella has turned to the person beside her.

 _“‘That woman’?”_ Chakotay repeats, his smile widening. “Why Kathryn, you almost sound jealous.”

“Why would I be jealous,” Kathryn leans an elbow on the table, turning her body toward his and lowering her voice still further so he has to lean in to hear her, “when you’re so obviously devoted to me?”

His smile falters for the briefest instant, but it’s long enough for her to sense his change in mood. She draws back instantly, folding her hands in her lap.

“Talk about inappropriate,” she mutters. “I’m sorry, Chakotay.”

“It’s all right.”

“No, it’s not. That was thoughtless, especially considering … well, what happens later.”

Kathryn suppresses a sigh, and ever attuned to the slightest shift in her temperament, Chakotay touches her lightly on the shoulder. “Don’t worry,” he says, his tone gently encouraging. “We’ve done this before. You know you have nothing to fear from me.”

She hesitates, and for a moment he thinks she’s about to say something quite different to the words that eventually fall from her lips.

“Of course I know that,” she says with a smile only a fraction tighter than usual. She leans slightly away so that his hand falls from her shoulder. “Let’s just get through this evening, and then everything can go back to normal.”

* * *

 _Nothing to fear_ , Kathryn thinks dismally as she pretends to listen to a monologue on Ruaitan scenic attractions from the minister seated to her right, politely humming and nodding at what she assumes are the correct moments. _As if it’s Chakotay that I’m afraid of, and not myself._

Of course, her more immediate fear is focused on the activities that will unfold over the course of the evening, no matter how blithe a countenance she wears in front of her first officer.

She knows what’s to come – neither Tuvok nor Chakotay would ever allow her to beam down to an alien planet and be blindsided by whatever tortuous formality she’s expected to perform – but reading it on a padd in dry diplomatic language is entirely different to being there. And the formalities on this planet will be particularly trying.

They often are, when first contact results in assumptions she fails to correct.

She really should know better by now. It’s not the first time her opening conversation with an alien dignitary has left them with the apparently indelible impression that Chakotay is her partner in more than just command.

 _Maybe they’d think differently_ , she admits to herself in a rare moment of honesty, _if you didn’t habitually put your hands all over him as though he’s your personal property._

Kathryn lays down the cutlery she’s been toying with and hopes her cheeks aren’t flushing with shame.

Chakotay had told her once – some time ago now, when she’d been surer of how he felt about her – that these ceremonies were hard on him. She had seen that for herself in his quietness over the days following one of these rituals, in the way he withdrew from her and flinched at her habit of touching his hand or his chest.

Gradually, as they had grown more accustomed to playing the roles so often expected of them after a first contact, Chakotay seemed better able to mute his reactions, or mask them.

 _Or maybe_ , she reflects now, _it doesn’t bother him anymore because the feelings are gone._

For someone who has spent so long wilfully ignoring the possibilities he embodies and how deeply she longs to explore them, has in fact denied or stonewalled even his most subtle attempts to broach the subject with her, that thought is perversely depressing.

Kathryn forces herself to nod interestedly as the minister beside her drones on about some notable geological formation she should probably care about but can’t. All she wants is for it to be tomorrow already, to be back on her bridge with a cargo hold full of supplies and _Voyager_ ’s bow pointed toward the Alpha quadrant.

Back to normal, or whatever passes for it.

She sighs again, almost heavily enough to put the minister off his stride. Heavily enough that Chakotay leans over and murmurs, “Are you all right, Kathryn?”

Luckily, she’s spared the need to answer by a hush falling across the table as Presider Hartani stands and raises his glass, which is filled with a clear purple liquid. All around them, other Ruaitans rise as well.

 _This is it_ , Kathryn thinks, hollowness clenching the pit of her stomach, as she and Chakotay stand as well.

Someone places a goblet in her hand, filled with the same violet liquid; it smells appealingly of blackberries. Beside her, she feels Chakotay shift on his feet.

“Captain Janeway, Commander Chakotay,” Hartani intones, “as honoured guests of Ruaita, we invite you to undertake the Rite of …” here, the universal translator glitches briefly, struggling to parse the alien word, “Inscription.”

In her briefing with Chakotay and Tuvok that afternoon, Kathryn’s spine had tingled with an unease she couldn’t explain. Now, raising her glass as she mentally revises the prescribed response to Hartani’s toast, she finds herself trying to push away those same misgivings.

“On behalf of my crew, my companion” – on its first attempt, the universal translator had rather alarmingly interpreted that term as _mate_ – “and myself, I thank you, Presider Hartani, and your people for your hospitality.”

She sips the purple drink in unison with Hartani, and the others at the table follow suit.

“In accordance with our tradition,” the dignitary continues, “a declaration must be made. Do you, Captain, Commander, in the presence of these good citizens, confirm that you stand before us open-hearted, sharing one intent and desire for the entirety of your existence?”

That shiver of apprehension tingles along her spine again: the parallel between these ritual words and the Starfleet marriage rite is undeniable. Still, the Ruaitan language can be interpreted in so many different ways; Tuvok’s translation of the declaration, in fact, was a rather insipid proclamation of shared goals and friendship.

Kathryn swallows. “I do.”

“I do,” Chakotay echoes beside her.

Hartani lifts his glass to drink again, and Kathryn and Chakotay copy him.

“Let it be known that a false tongue cannot hide the truth of the heart,” the presider continues, infusing his tone with gravity. “The Rite of Inscription binds you in enduring allegiance, and your lives will be forever given to the safekeeping of each other. Do you wish to renounce the oaths you have already sworn?”

Kathryn hesitates. In her first read-through, the computer had translated _enduring allegiance_ as _eternal devotion_ , and that final phrase had been: _do you wish to annul the vows you have taken?_

Beside her, Chakotay says softly, “I renounce no oaths. I swear them again in this moment, and in every moment to come.”

She opens her mouth, but her tongue feels thick and her heart is thundering in her chest.

“Captain?” Ordanelle Nuella prompts from her place next to the presider. “Do you swear it too?”

 _Why am I hesitating?_ Kathryn pep-talks herself frantically. _Haven’t we already sworn allegiance time and again? Haven’t we placed our lives in each other’s hands a hundred times over?_

“I swear,” she forces out finally.

A sigh ripples around the table, following by smiles and the relaxing of tensed shoulders.

Kathryn, on the other hand, finds herself more tightly wound than ever.

“It is sworn,” Hartani declares with a smile Kathryn reads as just this side of smug. “Drink, and let the rite begin!”

Kathryn and Chakotay have no sooner drunk the remnants of the blackberry wine than they are each surrounded by several excitedly chattering Ruaitans, who guide them in opposite directions through arched doorways at either end of the banquet hall.

* * *

Chakotay stares directly ahead as two elderly Ruaitan attendants remove his uniform with speed and efficiency. Naked, his skin warmed by late afternoon sunlight dappling through the leafy canopy overhead, he resists the impulse to cover himself with his hands and tries to focus on the gossiping of his companions, which his discarded combadge is still translating brokenly.

He wonders how Kathryn is coping with this part of her own ritual, and the thought brings a sudden grin to his face.

He studies his surroundings to distract himself from his apprehension over the impending ceremony. It’s a strange chamber they’ve brought him to: not a room but a kind of garden, walled on three sides with an impenetrable thicket woven from tough silvery trunks, and an open archway to his right. Beneath his feet is a carpet of mossy grass so soft he can’t help but curl his toes into it, and above him is a vaunted ceiling of interlacing branches bearing flat, veined leaves, a translucent grey-green in colour. He squints up, trying to make out the sky.

One of the Ruaitans calls back his attention, pressing a goblet into his hand. It’s filled with the same blackberry liquor they’d toasted with earlier, but there’s an extra spice to the scent. Without a tricorder he can’t be sure whether it’s an intoxicant; he sips judiciously and hands it back with a smile.

A third attendant taps Chakotay lightly on one hip, indicating that he should step into a pair of pants made from a loosely-woven, linen-like fibre. He follows hand-waving instructions to tie them closed, then, still barefoot and bare-chested, is led through the archway and into a densely thatched corridor floored with packed earth; almost a tunnel. Darkness gathers as he and his attendants move in deeper, and tiny lights begin to appear, strung through the branches on either side of them.

Moments later they emerge into a cavern. The first thing to catch Chakotay’s eye is a carved pool in the centre of the space, the water rippling gently and smelling faintly metallic. The earth underfoot has given way to a fine, glistening powder that clings to his soles. The walls are curved and striated granite, with a natural lustre that gathers reflected candlelight from the pool and tosses it around the space. It’s disorienting, and Chakotay has to blink before the dancing glimmers of light begin to make sense, before he can determine which way is up.

There’s a hush in the air, only the soft plink of dripping water echoing in the stillness, and a sense of expectancy.

Chakotay’s companions guide him to stand on the broad bank of powdery stone beside the pool. He gazes into it, trying to determine how deep it is, what minerals might permeate the brilliant turquoise water, whether there is any unsuspected danger … and then there’s a soft murmur of voices and the tiny hairs on his nape crawl and prickle, and he turns just in time to see Kathryn appear.

* * *

Kathryn’s senses are on high alert as her attendants usher her into the cavern. Her chin is high and her bearing regal, but her eyes dart around the space, as if on the lookout for danger.

It comes in the form of her first officer, standing alone by a shimmering aquamarine pool, straight-backed and bare to the waist and staring at her with an expression of palpable, if quickly veiled, hunger.

He offers her a restrained smile as Kathryn walks toward him.

“Nice outfit,” she brazens it out, keeping her voice low.

His reply is immediate. “I could say the same.”

Kathryn fidgets with the gauzy folds of the thing they’ve swathed her in. It keeps slipping off her shoulders, and she’s pretty sure it’s translucent. “It didn’t look quite so flimsy in the pictures they sent us.”

Chakotay’s eyes are black and hot as they flicker over her form, but wisely, he remains silent.

“Captain, Commander.”

Hartani and Nuella, followed by several other dignitaries, enter the cavern through a tunnel hidden in the shadows on the opposite side of the pool. With measured pace, they make their way to where Kathryn and Chakotay are standing and fan out until they’re arranged in a rough semi-circle around the command pair.

“Presider.” Kathryn tries to sound composed, as forced as it feels. “Ordanelle.”

Nuella steps forward. “Captain, you will be first to inscribe. Here,” and she hands Kathryn a shallow wooden bowl filled with the same lavender-coloured liquid they’ve been drinking.

Kathryn frowns. “What should I –”

“Just paint what is in your heart.” Nuella’s smile turns impish. “I’m told you’re an artist, Captain, so it shouldn’t be too difficult.”

“I don’t usually paint with my fingers,” she mutters, but steps closer to Chakotay. “Commander, if you would…?”

He turns obligingly, presenting her with an expanse of naked, bronzed back that makes her set her teeth. She dips a forefinger into the liquid and raises her hand, then hesitates.

Her audience seems to lean in. The air grows dense with anticipation, and she can tell from the way he stiffens his neck that Chakotay feels it, too. That same foreboding she’s been sensing since her first reading of this ritual seems to swell in her chest.

Chakotay turns his head just enough to catch her eye. She can almost hear him asking if she’s all right, and it strengthens her backbone. She nods slightly and he faces front again, and when her finger skims across his shoulderblade he only quivers a little.

Kathryn breathes out slowly, trying to take Nuella’s advice. _Paint what’s in my heart_ , she repeats to herself, as the clear purple liquid leaves luminescent trails across Chakotay’s skin. Her fingers dip and trace in random patterns until her hand drops of its own accord and she looks questioningly at Nuella.

The ordanelle picks up her cue. “Your turn, Commander,” she murmurs, taking the dish from Kathryn and handing it to Chakotay.

Kathryn presents her back, shrugging the muslin from her shoulders as Chakotay turns.

She hears him draw a slow breath, and clutches the fabric closer to her chest. _Just get it done, Commander_ , she orders him silently.

As though he’s heard her, one wet finger trails from her nape to a point halfway down her spine, and now she’s the one sipping air and trying not to squirm. She holds as still as she can while his fingertips caress her bare skin, and when he’s finished she sighs out her relief.

She’s forgotten the next part, so when Nuella takes her hand and leads her toward the shimmering pool, Kathryn resists.

“The proper time for” – _annulling your bond_ , attempts the translator, before correcting itself – “dissolving your alliance has passed, Captain,” the ordanelle whispers. “If you wish, we can call a halt. But you and your people would be asked to leave immediately.”

 _Without the supplies we came for_ , Kathryn deduces. She shakes her head. “I meant no offence, Ordanelle.”

“And none has been taken. Please.”

She slides the gauzy robe from Kathryn’s shoulders then helps her step into the pool. Kathryn’s cheeks burn, but she doesn’t flinch from the eyes on her. Nor does she shy away when Chakotay, equally naked, steps into the pool beside her.

Presider Hartani waves his hand, and Kathryn and Chakotay dive.

The water feels like champagne foam on her skin, like the stroke of a thousand tiny fingers. It’s rapture. She stays beneath the surface until her lungs sing, then propels herself upward in a shivering gasp.

Chakotay emerges a moment later. Bubbles are massed like glitter in his hair and on his skin, and his eyes are shining; she wonders if her own are, too. A smile breaks over his face when he sees her, so wide it makes her heart crack open, and she reaches for his hand.

Their fingers twine together and her body drifts toward his, every part of her wanting to touch every part of him. But something – a scuff of feet, or a clearing of throat – reminds them both of where they are.

Kathryn’s fingers loosen and Chakotay lets her go, and then Hartani and two other dignitaries are reaching to help them back onto solid ground. Kathryn shrugs quickly into her robe. It feels heavy and irritating on her skin; strange, considering how airy and insubstantial she’d thought it just moments ago.

She centres herself as Nuella touches her shoulder and hands her another goblet of lilac-coloured wine.

“It is time to reveal your inscription,” Nuella says, guiding Kathryn to bare her back to the assembled dignitaries, who begin to nod and murmur amongst themselves. Hartani and Nuella exchange pleased glances.

“It is as you vowed,” Hartani declares. “Your bond is eternal.”

Before Kathryn can question him, Nuella takes her hand and places it in Chakotay’s, closing her own palms around them.

“Your hearts have been revealed,” she intones. “The bond can now be consummated.”

Kathryn’s eyes snap to Nuella’s. “Can be … _what?”_

She can feel Chakotay’s surprise in the tightening of his fingers on hers.

The ordanelle’s eyes are wide and guileless. “I believe your culture has an expression: _sealed with a kiss_.”

“That wasn’t in your briefing material, Ordanelle,” Kathryn says tightly.

Nuella gives a small shrug. “Surely this is a small demonstration of fealty for an affiliated pair such as yours.”

She releases their hands and steps back, eyebrows raised in polite expectation.

“Right,” Kathryn mutters. “Of course.”

Her gaze strays reluctantly to Chakotay’s and finds him looking down at her. His expression is smooth and his eyes show only mild amusement.

“Would kissing me be such a chore, Captain?” he asks her, smiling faintly.

A myriad responses leap to her lips, and Kathryn presses them closed. “Of course not, Commander,” she says, tone crisp and chin lifted. “Let’s get it over with.”

At her tart words his composure seems to falter, the veneer of unconcern slipping to reveal something dark and heated that makes her lips part in a gasp. Before she can – apologise? demur? call for a beam-out? – he uses their clasped hands to tug her in close against his body. Then his other arm winds tight around her waist and his lips are on hers.

In the few seconds she’s had to consider the impending reality of this kiss, she has catalogued her own anxiety and her private lament that this – their first kiss – is to occur under such awkward circumstances. She has determined to treat it as just another diplomatic requirement: staged, symbolic, and ultimately meaningless. But when Chakotay’s mouth captures hers, she spares barely a moment to wonder how her plan has gone so disastrously, thrillingly wrong, because nothing else matters. Nothing but the softness of his lips on hers and the exploratory stroke of his tongue and the contained fervour of his hands on her waist and tangled in her hair.

When her own arms rise to wind around his neck and deepen their contact, however, he breaks the kiss and steps back, his face shuttering into the impenetrable façade she’s become used to. He folds his hands behind his back and looks away.

Kathryn’s lips feel swollen, and she wants to touch them. She wants to be alone and off-duty so she can recall every moment of that too-brief kiss, replay it until every detail is locked into memory. But now is not the time.

Nuella steps forward again, eyes sparkling.

“Are you ready?” she asks.

Kathryn remembers the rest of the ritual, and thinks, _I’ll never be ready for this_.

“Ready,” she replies instead, her voice commanding – if a little huskier than usual – and Nuella turns to lead her toward one of the many tunnels in the cavern wall. Kathryn looks back to see Chakotay trailing them.

They emerge into a chamber carved from rock. A sunset sky, shaded in vermilion and mauve, is just visible through the partial ceiling. The floor is swept even and covered with a mat of woven reeds. A hollow in the far wall appears to lead to another, smaller room – Kathryn can just see a small round pool glimmering through the opening; a bath, perhaps – and to her right is a large, opulent, incongruous bed.

Beside her, Chakotay goes still. Kathryn’s heartrate picks up and her skin feels hot. She rolls her shoulders, trying to dissipate the sweet tension building inside her.

“This alcove will provide you with food and wine,” she hears Nuella informing them. The ordanelle waves a hand toward the smaller room. “You may perform ablutions through there, and,” a smile lightens her voice, “we will return for you at dawn.”

“Thank you,” Kathryn answers, preoccupied. How could it not have occurred to her that there would be only one bed?

“It’s been an honour to witness the marking of two souls who so evidently belong together,” the ordanelle says. “Take pleasure in these moments.”

With a final, wide smile, she disappears back into the tunnel, and Kathryn looks up to find Chakotay’s eyes on her.

The breath sticks in her throat when she interprets that expression in his eyes: raw, unmistakable want.

She had thought that the feelings he once had for her were gone. Now she knows that he’s simply grown adept at concealing them.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your patience during the tortuously slow wait while I type approximately three words per day.
> 
> Turns out there's going to be a third chapter. Just a little bitty one though. I'll try not to take another eighty four years to finish this thing.
> 
> Also, please note the rating change. 😉

Her cheeks grow visibly flushed, and Chakotay realises suddenly just how long he’s been looking at her. Averting his eyes, he mumbles something lame and half-hearted that might pass for an apology, and moves quickly over to the rock shelf Nuella indicated to pour more of that ubiquitous wine. He gulps half of his own before he can make himself turn and face Kathryn again.

What the hell was he thinking, kissing her like that?

She’s not looking at him; her expression is closed-in and pensive as she gazes unseeingly at the floor. Maybe she’s calculating how many hours they’ll have to stay here before they can return to _Voyager_. Maybe she’s contemplating busting him down to crewman for assaulting a senior officer.

“Captain?” he asks warily.

“Is there any more of that wine?” Her tone is abrupt, and he crosses the room to hand her the full glass; he notices how carefully she avoids touching him as she takes it, and his heart sinks.

“Captain, I’m –”

“If you’re going to tell me you’re sorry, Chakotay, don’t. Just … don’t.”

Kathryn tips the contents of her glass down her throat in one swallow and stalks into the bathroom, both her under-the-breath muttering and her body language telling him loud and clear that he’ll follow at his peril.

He stares after her for a moment, then at the sounds of splashing water reminds himself to turn his back; the archway into the smaller room has no door, and it’s clear that Kathryn wants privacy.

It’s lucky that she doesn’t want his apology, he muses, because in truth, he’s not sorry he kissed her. He’s sorry for the awkwardness it will undoubtedly cause between them, and for the lonely nights he foresees until she can bring herself to stop making excuses to avoid him, until they can resume the balance that allows them to maintain their friendship. But kissing her? He’ll never be sorry for that.

He stares unseeingly into his half-empty glass, remembering how soft her lips felt under his, the small breathy gasp that had robbed him of all restraint, the slender strength of her arms winding around his neck, her body against his – and he’s forced to suppress a groan as he sinks onto the edge of the bed.

The bed they’re expected to share, which, despite its vast size, cannot possibly be large enough for his comfort.

“Chakotay.”

He jumps in near-fright; he hadn’t heard Kathryn return to the main chamber, and her voice is close. “Yes, ma’am,” he snaps out automatically as he stands and turns to face her.

She’s standing barely a metre away, her expression wavering between apprehension and resolve; her small frame is swathed in something gauzy and voluminous that she clutches tightly closed at her chest. Water beads her bare shoulders.

He should be looking away, Chakotay knows, but he can’t. To cover his own discomfort he asks lightly, “Another new outfit?”

“I don’t know where our uniforms are,” she says, slightly defensive. “But at least they brought our combadges.”

She tilts her chin at the shelf built into the rock wall above the bed Chakotay has studiously avoided looking at. Two glints of silver catch his eye, and Chakotay finds himself unexpectedly relieved.

They have a way out of here, if they need to take it. Or, rather, if he needs it. He can’t imagine that Kathryn is having as much trouble controlling her baser urges as he is right now, especially when he looks at her in that drape of fabric that hides precisely nothing …

“I know what you’re thinking,” says Kathryn.

His eyes flick up to her face, trying to hide his alarm. “You do?”

She smirks. “You’re wondering why Tuvok hasn’t interrupted us yet.”

Chakotay stares at her, then barks out a laugh. “This would usually be about the time he hails one of us,” he agrees.

His smile fades as her gaze drifts over to the bed looming conspicuously beside them. She bites her lip, one hand straying to the back of her neck. Colour rises in her cheeks.

“I’ll take the floor,” he finds himself saying.

Kathryn’s eyes cut back to him. “No,” she says on a sigh, dropping her hand to her side, “there’s no need for that, Chakotay. I’m perfectly able to …” she breaks off, then rallies, “I have plenty of experience with controlling my impulses, Commander. You don’t have to worry about … inappropriate advances from me.”

Chakotay feels as though he’s temporarily stepped sideways into another universe; one where Kathryn doesn’t immediately shut down any attempt to delineate the nebulous borders of whatever it is between them.

“I wasn’t aware that your … impulses … were a factor,” he says slowly, “let alone inappropriate ones.”

She gives him an exasperated look and folds her arms defensively, and oh how he wishes she wouldn’t do that; it draws his eyes to the supple slope of her breasts and the tight visible knots of her nipples, and fills his mind with visions of pushing that filmy fabric aside and finding nothing but Kathryn beneath –

“… disingenuous, Chakotay. I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

“What?” he tunes back in.

Clearly, he’s somehow managed to annoy her; Kathryn throws up her hands – a motion which makes her drapery shift in alarming ways – and steps up to him.

“We’re both adults,” she announces, glaring up at him as her hands settle on her hips. “And as colleagues … as _friends_ , I think we can handle a little honesty between us. Don’t you?”

“Um,” he says. “Yes?”

It’s the right answer, fortunately, because Kathryn’s shoulders relax and her lips soften into a small smile. “Good,” she says. “Maybe that will make this ridiculous situation easier. So, Commander – _Chakotay_ ,” she amends, “I know you’ve worked hard to keep our relationship on friendly terms, as have I, so let me reassure you that you have nothing to fear. The bed is big enough that we can share it without unnecessary contact.”

He swallows.

Kathryn’s eyes flicker with uncertainty. “Of course, if you’re still uncomfortable with the situation, I’ll sleep on the floor.”

Finally, his brain grinds into gear. “No,” he rushes. “No, there’s no need – you won’t. No. The bed is … fine.”

She nods slowly. “All right. Thank you.”

They stare at each other for a moment longer, until Kathryn’s colour begins to rise again and she drops her gaze.

“Well,” she mumbles, “I’m a little tired. I think I’ll turn in.”

“Okay.”

“Which side do you –” she blushes harder, then draws a deep breath and smiles at him. “This is ridiculous. I usually sleep on the left, but if you have a preference …?”

“No.” Chakotay finds himself grinning as well. “I don’t mind.”

“All right.” Kathryn skirts around him and perches on the edge of the bed, running her fingers through her hair. “My kingdom for a comb,” she mutters wryly.

“I could –” The words get stuck on his tongue, and before he can finish the offer he knows he shouldn’t make, Chakotay bows his head.

By the time he lifts his gaze, Kathryn is buried under the covers.

“I guess I should wash up too,” he mutters, and escapes to the bathroom.

* * *

She’s sprawled across a pliant, solid surface, her cheek resting on something smooth and warm that rises and falls in drawn-out, even measure. Under her ear is an echoing drumbeat. Something stirs the hair at her crown.

A breeze, or breath?

Kathryn blinks slowly, her mind reaching out to each individual component of her own body in turn. Taking stock.

The small of her back, covered by spread fingers and warm palm.

Her own fingers, wrapped possessively into a large, calloused hand.

One side of her face against a broad, bare chest; a heartbeat that synchronises with her own.

The hard jut of a hip against her lower abdomen …

Her thighs, spread by the occupying press of a muscled leg between them … a limb that twitches as she tenses, breath caught and eyes wide, all her attention suddenly focused on that part of her body. On how thrillingly invasive that masculine thigh feels, stretching her own. On the rushing response of heat that pools in her lower belly, pushes her hips into his, gathers wet and aching between her legs.

She utters a sound – part sigh, part yearning. The body beneath hers goes still, then rigid and taut. The breath stirring her hair stops, caught.

The heartbeat beneath her cheek begins to pound. The chest expands as air rushes in, and she feels him groan out a single syllable that could be the first half of her name or her title but before either of them can decide, she pushes up to fit her mouth to his.

His hands are in her hair and his tongue in her mouth, and she’s shoving herself onto him, pressed tight, abdomen and hips and thighs; she’s spreading herself around him, drawing him in, tugging him closer with a hand curled behind his head and fingers tight in his hair. She tips onto her back and pulls him to cover her, gasping as his lips find her throat and his hand finds her breast. She thrusts a hand between them, shoves his loose pants down so she can circle him with palm and fingers, revels in the buck of his hips and the way he collapses onto her; she splays her other hand over the base of his back and locks her thighs around his hips and whimpers _yes please yes_ and then he’s inside her, hard, grinding, winding the sweet tension tighter and higher and she’s crying out, wrapping herself in him and around him and clutching his back, biting into his shoulder, maybe drawing blood because he shouts out something unintelligible as the hot pleasure bubbles and bursts inside her, blinding her, deafening her, leaving her trembling and raw.

Kathryn blinks.

Chakotay lies stretched across her, heavy and hot. His breath puffs against her neck, his skin sticking to hers. There’s the taste of salt and copper on her tongue, and she can feel how tightly she’s wound her fingers in his hair by the way they’re cramping. She unwinds them carefully, wincing.

At her soft sound of pain Chakotay raises his head to look at her, pushing his weight off her. He misinterprets her involuntary moan at the loss of contact. Alarm fills his eyes, then dread, then shame.

He scrambles out of the bed, fumbling to tie his pants closed.

“Kath- Captain,” he stammers, then, “Did I hurt you?”

Still confused, she stares at him in dawning dismay.

Did she just -?

Her body, even slower to catch up than her mind, informs her languidly that indeed, she did.

They did.

“ _Kathryn_ ,” he pleads, urgent, “are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” she says absently, then, “Oh, _fuck_.”

Relief washes across his face, followed by a brief flash of dimples. “You could say that.”

Groaning, she drops her face into her hands.

“Hey.” The bed dips beside her. “It wasn’t that bad, was it?”

Kathryn is spared the need to answer by the unheralded entrance of Hartani, Nuella and several other beaming dignitaries. Flushing, she scrambles to tuck the sheet around her naked torso.

“Pleasant dawn, Captain, Commander,” trills Nuella. “I trust the renewal of your bond was all you hoped for.”

Beside her, Presider Hartani observes the bed’s disarray and the flush Kathryn is sure hasn’t yet faded from her skin.

“It certainly appears that way,” he offers, smiling broadly.

_Diplomacy now_ , Kathryn reminds herself, snagging last night’s drapery from Chakotay’s outstretched fingers and wrapping it firmly around her body before she emerges from the rumpled bed. _You can cry later._

“Good morning, Presider.” Her voice sounds slurred and husky in her own ears, and she coughs to clear it. “Might we have our uniforms?”

One of the Ruaitans steps forward, placing a neatly folded pile of red and black on the bed.

“Thank you,” Kathryn mumbles, staring at it and wondering if it will ever fit right again.

* * *

Watching her greet the Ruaitan delegation – hair tangled, body wrapped hastily in sheer fabric, but with her spine straight and her bearing regal – Chakotay reflects that someone who doesn’t know her well might think Kathryn is perfectly composed.

Knowing her as he does, though, his insides are churning and his throat closing over.

She might never speak to him again outside of their duty shifts. He might never visit her quarters for dinner, or joke with her, or rub her sore feet at the end of a long day; those simple liberties might be things of the past now. She might never lay her hand on his chest again, or give him that tender, quirky smile she saves just for him.

And, as much as he’s longed for what they’ve just done together, the trade-off isn’t worth it.

_What the hell is wrong with me?_ he wonders miserably. Years of silent longing and rigid self-control overcome; years of friendship and carefully constructed barriers torn down. And all because he’d woken to find Kathryn in his arms and hadn’t been able to pull back.

If only he could blame the wine … but he knows he has nobody to blame but himself.

He watches Kathryn mouthing platitudes and smiling tightly until the Ruaitans, content that their ritual requirements have been satisfied, finally leave them alone. But then, of course, everything is worse, because Kathryn mumbles a barely intelligible excuse and rushes into the bathroom, and when she emerges a few minutes later, she is every inch the captain.

She collects their combadges from the shelf in the wall and strides toward him, and Chakotay finds himself straightening into the at-ease posture.

“Commander,” she says, her voice abrupt, his communicator held out on her palm.

He takes it.

She pins her own badge to her chest and taps it. “Janeway to _Voyager_.”

~Tuvok here,~ comes the reply.

“One to beam up.”

Tuvok acknowledges the order, and in the moment before the transporter takes hold, Chakotay reads regret in her eyes.

“I’ll see you at breakfast,” she says quietly, and then she’s gone.

* * *

The marks won’t come off.

Kathryn has already spent far longer in the shower than she intended. She’d hurried from the transporter room to her quarters, needing a few minutes’ solitude before she has to rejoin the Ruaitans … and Chakotay … at breakfast on Ruaita. Needing to breathe, to realign her priorities and put their indiscretion behind her. But, after stripping off her uniform and stepping into a hot water shower to wash the impression of Chakotay’s hands from her skin, she glances over her shoulder into the mirror and catches sight of the meandering, silvery patterns adorning her back.

Scrubbing them with a rough sponge has no effect. Nor does switching the shower setting to sonic pulses, nor her final, desperate attempt to scratch them off with her fingernails.

Shrugging back into her uniform, Kathryn pulls up the Ruaitan diplomatic briefing material on a padd and studies it, pacing her quarters with a much-needed mug of coffee in her other hand.

When they’d made first contact with Presider Hartani two days ago, she’d assigned Chakotay, Tuvok and Neelix to handle the intricacies of the formal proceedings while she, Tom and B’Elanna worked on the trade agreement. Chakotay had briefed her on the Rite of Inscription, of course. She’d known what she was getting into.

Or so she’d thought.

As she scrolls quickly through the dense paragraphs of text, Kathryn’s gaze skips over one little clause before her brain catches up. Swallowing, she reads it again. And again, as her eyes go wide and her breath begins to quicken.

_… in this exceptional and happy circumstance, the marks will become permanent …_

~Bridge to Captain Janeway.~

Kathryn jumps in shock as Tuvok’s voice echoes from her combadge. “Janeway here,” she gulps.

~We are being hailed from the surface, Captain. Ordanelle Nuella requests your presence at the celebratory breakfast.~

“Understood,” Kathryn grinds her teeth, “I’m on my way.”

She slaps the padd onto her desk with rather more force than required and strides toward the transporter room.

* * *

Chakotay nods politely and listens to Ordanelle Nuella with half an ear as he covertly watches Kathryn from the opposite side of the breakfast table.

Or rather, as he watches the captain. Having apparently decided that scrupulous formality is the best antidote to being caught naked in bed with her first officer, _Kathryn_ is nowhere to be seen.

Except in the flash of icy fury she directs at Chakotay during a brief break in the conversation.

“Oh my, Commander. What have you done?”

Chakotay jumps slightly at Nuella’s murmured question. “Excuse me?”

The ordanelle’s large purple eyes flicker in Kathryn’s direction. “It seems you’ve displeased your,” the translator hesitates, glitching, then supplies, “bond-mate.”

“My … _what?”_

“Your bond-mate,” Nuella repeats, then as Chakotay continues to stare, “Your intimate companion, Commander. Your wife.”

Chakotay gapes at her.

A frown wrinkles Nuella’s smooth brow. “I’m aware your interpreting device has some difficulty with our language, Commander, but surely the information we transmitted to you was quite clear?”

“Clear?” He’s lost the thread of all this somewhere in the last few minutes, Chakotay decides, or maybe the last hours. There’s bound to be a rational explanation. “The information?”

“Yes. The briefing material we discussed with your ambassador, Mr Neelix, which detailed the Rite of Imprinting.”

“You mean _Inscription_.”

Nuella inclines her head. “I suppose that is one, rather literal, translation. It does lack nuance, however.”

Foreboding prickles the back of Chakotay’s neck. “What other _nuances_ has our universal translator failed to detect, Ordanelle?”

The look she levels at him is shrewd, and she hesitates before speaking again.

“As I explained to Ambassador Neelix when we first ran the ritual wording through your computer, there is some leeway in how the ceremony can be interpreted. He did ask for clarification on several clauses, but I believe I managed to allay his concerns. After all,” she smiles, raising a cup of clear purple liquid to her lips, “the Rite of Imprinting can only forge a formal union between those who are not already intimately bonded. And that, Commander, is clearly not the case between you and your captain.”

Chakotay’s gaze strays across the table, caught and held for a moment by the ire that glints in Kathryn’s grey eyes. His stomach twists with apprehension and he places his utensils on the table, having lost his appetite completely.

“Excuse me, please, Ordanelle,” he mumbles. “I think I’d better contact Ambassador Neelix.”

* * *

Her attention is caught by the scrape of Chakotay’s chair against the floor, and Kathryn, who has been listening to Presider Hartani extol the virtues of the ubiquitous Ruaitan blackberry wine, glances up and frowns at her first officer’s retreating back.

_Where the hell is he going?_ she fumes silently. _If he thinks he can slip out of here without explaining himself –_

“… not to your liking, Captain?”

“I’m sorry?” she tunes hastily back into Hartani’s enquiry.

The Ruaitan bends his head and asks her kindly, “Are you all right? You seem preoccupied.”

“I apologise, Presider,” she smiles, picking up her cup to give her hands something to do, “I must admit my thoughts wandered.”

“Thinking about your ship, no doubt,” he nods. “Anxious to complete the trades and be on your way.”

“We have a long journey ahead,” she answers cautiously. The presider’s eyes are shrewder than she’d noticed before.

“And you promised to get that crew of yours home. Yes. I can see they mean a lot to you.”

“Of course.”

“I was a starship captain once, too. Would have done anything for my crew, just like you; given up anything I thought I should for their sake. Of course, they never asked me to do that. They only wanted me to be happy. It’s quite clear that your crew feel the same way about you.”

“They’re a good crew,” Kathryn says, wishing her blackberry drink was coffee, or perhaps whiskey.

“Yes. I enjoyed the time I spent with your Mr Neelix, and of course, Commander Tuvok.”

Kathryn frowns. “You mean Commander Chakotay.”

“No, Captain. Mr Chakotay greeted us at your transporter room, but Neelix and Tuvok were the ones who escorted us on our tour of your ship. And I believe it was Mr Neelix who worked with Ordanelle Nuella on translating the Rite of Imprinting for you and your husband.”

The glass almost slips from Kathryn’s hand. “My _what?”_

“Your husband,” Hartani repeats. “And I must compliment your crew on being most forthcoming in helping us determine the status of your bond with the commander.”

The planet tilts under Kathryn’s feet, and she puts her cup down with care. “Forthcoming _how_ , exactly?”

“Well, to begin with,” Hartani says placidly, “your pilot described your frequent physical expressions of affection toward your mate –”

“Physical expressions…?” Kathryn’s voice is faint.

“To quote Mr Paris: ‘The captain often rests her hand on Chakotay’s chest, or touches his shoulder. Sometimes I’ve seen her touch his face or hold his hand.’ He did add that the commander does not touch you in the same manner or with the same frequency, but his opinion was that this was the commander’s way of demonstrating his professional respect for you.”

“Did Mr Paris have any other opinions to offer?” Kathryn grinds her teeth.

“None of note. However, Ambassador Neelix agreed with his statement, and pointed out that you and the commander dine together almost every night, that you take breakfast together when your shifts allow it, and that the commander’s replicator rations are frequently transferred to what he calls your ‘coffee account’.” The presider smiles at her. “Sharing of your worldly possessions is a common component of a strong and loving partnership. Wouldn’t you agree?” 

Kathryn feels the colour draining from her face.

“And then, of course, there was Commander Tuvok’s opinion. Given his status as your oldest friend, it carried considerable weight in helping us determine the nature of your relationship with Mr Chakotay.”

She’s almost afraid to ask, but she _has_ to know. “What exactly did Tuvok have to say?”

“He was quite eloquent, actually.” Hartani smiles. “He told us that you and the commander make most of your decisions together, that you rely on his experience and intuition, and that he offers you his unwavering support. He explained that you spend most of your time together on and off duty and never seem to tire of each other’s company. He said that you exhibit trust and faith in one another, and a devotion worthy of a lifelong pair bond. He likened your affiliation to his bond with his own wife, describing it as ‘a union of the deepest and most steadfast kind’. He said that in all his years serving among humans in Starfleet, he had rarely encountered the kind of love that you and Commander Chakotay have for each –”

“ _Stop_.” The plea sticks in Kathryn’s throat. “Please, stop.”

The presider leans back in his chair and tilts his head, scrutinising her. “My dear captain, nothing Nuella and I have observed contradicts anything your crewmen told us. Had we any doubts about the nature of your connection, we would not have asked you to undertake the Rite of Imprinting; at least, not without directly explaining what the ritual would mean for you.”

Kathryn seizes on the only thing she can bear to challenge. “The Rite of Imprinting? I understood the term meant _Inscription_.”

Hartani’s smile widens. “I suspect that, by now, you’ve discovered the broader interpretation of the ritual.”

She slumps back in her seat. “You mean … it’s permanent?”

“Yes, Captain.” The presider gives her a sympathetic look. “You may not see it at the moment, but you are very fortunate. Most people live their entire lives without finding the one who completes them., but you spend your days beside yours.” He rests a hand on top of hers and lowers his voice. “Perhaps you’ll be wise enough to spend your nights with him as well.”

“You knew all along,” Kathryn realises slowly.

She bites down on her indignation. _You wily old matchmaking goat! You’re as bad as that traitor, Tuvok._

_And all morning I’ve been furious with Chakotay over something that isn’t even his fault._

“You knew we weren’t married, and you let us go through that ritual anyway,” she accuses. “Why?”

“A false tongue cannot hide the truth of the heart,” the presider replies, quoting the ritual words. “You swore the oath. You took the vows. That has always been true, and remains so.”

“And what does that mean, exactly?”

“It means that you and Commander Chakotay were bonded long ago in heart, mind and deed. The ritual simply shaped the words around that bond, and the marks you imprinted upon each other are the tangible evidence of two souls that will forever walk the same path.” Hartani pats her hand. “Congratulations on formalising your marriage, Captain.”


	3. Chapter 3

All afternoon he’s been expecting a summons to her ready room for a lecture in Starfleet protocol – as if he needs one; he can probably recite the relevant clauses by heart – or at the very least, a cancellation of their standing dinner date.

Nothing comes.

Chakotay shifts in his chair on the bridge, his mood plummeting by the hour. If experience is anything to go by, the longer she waits to ream him out, the worse it’s going to be.

Finally, at end of shift, he turns the bridge over to Harry and trudges back to his quarters. She must be intending to shred him into tiny pieces over dinner, he decides, so he’d better not give her any more ammunition. He showers and dresses in a fresh uniform, makes sure his hair is tamed and his rank bar is perfectly straight, replicates a bottle of her favourite wine as a peace offering and marches to meet his fate.

“Come in,” the captain calls at his chime, and Chakotay steps cautiously into her living area.

He’d been bracing himself for lights at full, an unused replicator and a dining table covered in padds, at best, so he’s surprised to find the room illuminated mostly by candles, the sound of mellow jazz, and the aroma of something spicy permeating the air.

The captain turns from the replicator as he enters, a steaming dish in her hands. She’s still in uniform, but her jacket is unzipped and her hair tousled as though she’s been running her fingers through it.

She doesn’t glare, but her greeting isn’t exactly warm, either. “You know where the glasses are, Commander,” she remarks, nodding toward the bottle in his hand.

By the time Chakotay returns from the sideboard with two full glasses of merlot, the captain has shed her jacket and is ladling a fragrant casserole onto two plates.

“This looks wonderful,” he tries, waiting for her to sit before he does so himself. “I don’t think I’ve seen this recipe before.”

“That’s probably because I haven’t cooked it for you.”

Her eyes are steady and unreadable on his, and he jokes to allay his nerves. “Is this the part where I taste it first to make sure it isn’t poisoned?”

“Are you expecting me to poison you, Commander?” she responds immediately.

He tugs at his earlobe. “I’m not sure.”

“Sounds like the voice of a guilty conscience,” she parries, and sips her wine.

Chakotay decides silence is the wisest course of action, forking up a large mouthful to cover his unease.

“Well?”

He chews quickly and swallows. “Delicious,” he states, though he has no idea if it really is. The tightness in his throat makes the casserole taste like cardboard.

They eat in silence as Chakotay’s nerves stretch thinner and thinner. Eventually he can’t force down another morsel. He lays his fork on his plate and gulps his wine.

“Are you finished?”

He nods, offering, “Let me get the plates,” and he scoops up the dirty dishes – for once, Kathryn’s is emptier than his – and shoves them into the recycler.

When is she going to chew him out, and how bad will it be? Will he be facing the icy-eyed captain with her firm mouth and rigid spine, or – worse, so much worse – Kathryn, with liquid disappointment in her eyes and her voice shaking with wounded feelings?

Chakotay fiddles with the recycler controls as he breathes out his anxiety, and finally turns to face the music.

Kathryn is leaning against the edge of the table, arms crossed under her breasts, legs crossed at the ankle. She’s looking directly at him. He still can’t read her expression, but it doesn’t seem as though she’s intending to issue a formal reprimand or a tug on his heartstrings.

Nevertheless, he assumes the at-ease position and fixes his gaze on a point several centimetres above her head.

“So,” she drawls, “I had an extremely enlightening conversation with Presider Hartani this morning.”

“Captain?” he asks cautiously.

Kathryn pushes away from the table and stalks around him, her movements sinuous, deliberate. “Apparently,” she continues in a gravel voice, “my first officer saw fit to shirk his duty. An _important_ duty that I assigned him.”

She’s directly behind him now. Chakotay shifts on his feet.

“You entrusted a _crewman_ with the vital task of interpreting an alien cultural ritual, Commander,” she almost growls. “You are the executive officer of this ship and a trained anthropologist, and as such, you were doubly suited to perform this duty. And now, because of your unwillingness to shoulder your responsibilities, _Voyager_ has become embroiled in a diplomatic incident. One that will have _lasting_ effects.”

Chakotay frowns at that, but stays quiet.

Kathryn paces into his sightline, halting directly in front of him. Too close for his comfort.

“Well?” she demands. “Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

He straightens even further. “No, Captain.”

She steps even closer, right into his space. “Nothing _at all?”_

“No ma’am.”

Silence. He can feel her eyes on him, searching his face as he struggles to remain impassive and his nerves stretch so taut he’s afraid they’ll snap –

“Oh for God’s sake, Chakotay, you look as if you’re awaiting your execution.”

The bubbling laughter in her tone makes his eyes snap down to hers.

 _Damn_ , he realises suddenly. _She played me_.

“Am I really that terrifying?” she smirks at him, cocking a hip.

Well, two could play that game.

“Terrifying?” he asks, as if he’s seriously considering the question. “I wouldn’t go that far. Intimidating, yes. Authoritative.”

She raises an eyebrow.

“Imperious,” he tests. “Maybe even dictatorial.”

Her smile falters a little.

“On occasion, some might even say … _tyrannical_ ,” Chakotay pushes.

Kathryn’s mouth drops open, and she looks so outraged that he can’t hold in his laughter.

“Oh, _you_ –” she breaks off, planting her hands on her hips, a lop-sided smile softening her lips. “All right, well played, Commander. Come on,” and she moves toward the couch, patting the seat beside her. “We have a few things to talk about.”

* * *

Kathryn toes off her boots and socks, curling her feet beneath her on the couch and watching Chakotay as he sheds his jacket and settles beside her. He looks a hell of a lot more at ease than he had when he entered her quarters tonight, she reflects, grinning to herself. She’d teased him partly as payback for that damned ritual, but mostly so that she could watch his shoulders relax and his dimples appear.

Still, the situation is serious and she shouldn’t make light of it.

“Why did you assign the translation to Neelix?”

“He volunteered.” Chakotay passes a hand over his face, chagrined. “I’m sorry, Captain. He did try to contact me several times to discuss what he called ‘interesting developments’, but I was so busy that I palmed him off on Tuvok.”

“Yes,” Kathryn mutters darkly, “Tuvok. _His_ interpretation of the ritual was rather watered-down, wasn’t it?”

Wisely, Chakotay says nothing.

Sighing, Kathryn taps her combadge. “Janeway to Neelix.”

~Neelix here, Captain.~

“Mr Neelix, it’s come to my attention that you were responsible for interpreting the Ruaitan documents regarding the Rite of Inscription. Would you care to detail your analysis of the ritual?”

~Ah, ah, well, Captain …~

“Neelix,” she cuts through his bluster. “Explain.”

There’s a lengthy pause, then, ~Captain, I’m sorry. My reading of the text seemed to indicate that it was some kind of, uh, bonding ritual. Of course I realised I must be mistaken, so I asked Mr Tuvok to examine it. He interpreted the ritual quite differently, and given his experience with such things I deferred to his judgement.~

“I see. Thank you, Neelix. Janeway out.”

She presses her lips together, thinking, then opens a new channel.

“Janeway to Tuvok.”

~Yes, Captain.~

“Please clarify your understanding of the Ruaitan ritual Mr Chakotay and I undertook yesterday, Commander.”

~Of course, Captain. I interpreted it as a ceremonial demonstration of trust and comradeship intended to forge an alliance between species.~

“Yes, so you said earlier when you assured me that the ritual was purely a formality.”

“That is correct, Captain,~ answers Tuvok. ~As you are aware, such formalities are not an uncommon occurrence during diplomatic first contact situations.~

“Perhaps not,” Kathryn grinds out. “However, it’s come to my attention that the ritual can also be interpreted as a …” she falters, “a marriage rite.”

~The Ruaitan language is infinitely diverse and nuanced, and in this instance I applied the most diplomatic and logical interpretation of the ritual,~ Tuvok responds smoothly. ~However, you are correct Captain. A marriage rite is one possible analysis of the text, though my understanding is that the applicable circumstances would have to be unique.~

Kathryn clenches her teeth, staring at the ceiling to gather her patience. “And is that analysis applicable in our unique circumstances?”

For the first time, Tuvok pauses, then, ~Yes, Captain. It is.~

Kathryn’s shoulders slump.

~Furthermore,~ Tuvok continues, apparently having decided that further dissembling would be pointless, ~I took the liberty of investigating the legitimacy of this ritual under Federation law. As with most bonding ceremonies undertaken on alien soil by participants in their right minds and of their own free will, the contract stands.~ He pauses. ~Captain, Commander, allow me to be the first to offer felicitations on your marriage. It has been, as humans say, a long time coming.~

Kathryn swallows hard.

“Actually, Tuvok,” she forces out, “you’re not the first. But we appreciate the sentiment. Janeway out.”

Silence echoes in the room.

Finally, Chakotay touches a hand to her knee and ventures, “Captain? Are you all right?”

Shaking him off, Kathryn pushes restlessly to her feet and begins to pace. “We have to figure out how to handle this,” she declares. “Clearly, it’s an impossible situation. There must be some way around the regulations.”

Chakotay rises to stand beside the couch. “Tuvok seems to think it’s watertight,” he points out carefully.

“But if we didn’t go into it knowingly …” She gesticulates wildly. “Perhaps we can petition the Ruaitans for a formal dissolution on the grounds that we didn’t understand what we were getting into.”

Chakotay raises his eyebrows. “We had our ambassador and second officer approve the ritual, Captain. And we both took the oath. I expect the Ruaitans would claim that we knew exactly what we were getting into.”

“Oh God,” she groans, “what a snafu. Why on earth did you trust those two incompetent idiots to handle this, Chakotay?”

A frown pinches his forehead. “So this is all my fault?”

“I suppose I have to accept some of the blame too. I did agree to that damned ritual against my better judgement.” Kathryn runs a hand through her hair, slowing to a stop in front of him, then gazes up in despair. “What are we going to do about this? Could we find some kind of contractual loophole Tuvok hasn’t considered?”

She looks up at him pleadingly, and is surprised to find his jaw tight and his eyes dark with ire.

“What’s the matter?” she asks him.

“Is the idea of being my wife really so offensive to you, Kathryn?”

Stunned into silence, she can only stare at him.

Chakotay huffs out a breath, hands resting on his hips. “You’re in a state of panic at the mere thought of us being bonded,” he points out. “Why? Do I embarrass you? Is it against your damned protocols, or do I just disgust you?”

“Chakotay,” she breathes. “God, no, you don’t – Of course n- I didn’t m-”

Before she can finish even one of her broken sentences, Chakotay breaches the space between them in one stride, wraps one arm around her waist, grasps her face in his other hand and tilts it upward, his mouth descending on hers.

She gasps, and he takes advantage of her parted lips to slide his tongue inside to wrap around hers. For a moment she stiffens and debates shoving him away – how dare he grab her like this! – but then the hand at her waist flattens across her back to tug her against his body, and his lips soften and nudge at hers, and her breath catches in her throat at the way he’s simultaneously so possessive and so gentle.

When his thigh pushes between hers and she moans and wraps her arms around his neck, she gives up all pretence of reluctance. Pressing closer, she kisses him back with every ounce of the longing she’s been suppressing since they met, since they became almost-lovers on a faraway planet, since that very morning when they finally made love and she looked at him and wanted so much more.

Eventually, he eases back, nuzzling his lips across her cheek before he raises his head to look at her. His eyes are soft, and she can only imagine the expression in her own.

“Obviously, the bonding ritual was a misunderstanding,” he says, his voice gravelly. “But I don’t think I’m reading anything into that kiss that wasn’t there.”

Kathryn swallows hard. “No, I don’t suppose you are.”

“Not disgusting, then,” he teases her, one dimple appearing.

She shakes her head slowly, a smile breaking over her own face. “Quite the opposite of disgusting.”

“And I don’t embarrass you?” He presses his lips to her temple.

Kathryn tightens her arms around his neck. “Starfleet captains don’t embarrass easily.”

“Ah,” he murmurs. “Then it must be protocol that’s stopping you from admitting how you feel about me.”

“How I feel –” She pulls back a little, but Chakotay’s arms tighten.

“Don’t go denying it.” He dips his forehead to hers. “I wouldn’t believe you, anyway.”

She huffs out a laugh. “You’re insubordinate.”

“You love me for it.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Good,” he says. “I love you, too.”

“Prove it.”

“With pleasure,” Chakotay grins, sweeping her up into his arms and striding in the direction of her bedroom.

* * *

He sets her on her feet beside the bed. She moves to divest him of his undershirt, but Chakotay shakes his head, catching her hands. “My turn first,” he tells her, and Kathryn bites her lower lip and nods.

He takes his time, unveiling small portions of her skin and following the shed fabric with kisses, fixing in his memory the places where his touch makes her squirm or shiver or gasp. When she’s naked he shucks his own uniform quickly and grins at her expression of mock outrage, but before she can protest he kisses her, stroking a palm down her back and tangling his fingers gently in her hair, nipping along the line of her jaw until she sighs and melts against him, all objections forgotten.

His one regret about the way they’d come together in the early morning was that it was over so quickly, so this time he’s determined to make it last. Her impatient moans when he sucks her nipple into his mouth don’t sway him, nor the way she pleads when he kisses along her inner thighs, or when she grabs handfuls of his hair as he licks at her slowly, lavishly.

She gets her own back, of course, wrestling him onto his back and climbing astride him, working her way down his chest and stomach and resisting his half-hearted attempts to stop her as she takes him in her mouth. Only when his pleas grow ragged and desperate does she relent, sliding upward until she can straddle his hips and take him deep inside her, rocking against him, winding her fingers through his and leaning close to kiss him as he thrusts upward slowly, powerfully.

Her orgasm is the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen: the way her body grows taut, her mouth drops open and her eyes half-close, the catch in her breath and her near-silent, shuddering moan. He staves off his own climax until she collapses onto his chest, then lets go with a shout that sounds like her name.

Kathryn kisses him lazily, messily, then shifts off him and onto her side. He watches with renewed interest as she stretches, her body languid and warm.

She catches him staring.

"Hey,” she says softly, then smirks. “I’m starving. Be a good husband and get me something to eat, will you?”

Chakotay snorts out a laugh. “What does my wife desire?”

Kathryn shrugs nonchalantly, rolling onto her stomach. “Surprise me.”

He gets out of bed and turns back to admire her, stretched out across the sheets, naked and creamy-skinned and –

“Kathryn,” he says, “there’s something on your back …”

He leans over to trace the silvery whorls and curlicues glinting on her skin, his fingertip following the three joined circles down the centre of her spine.

“This is the design I painted on you last night,” Chakotay realises.

Kathryn looks over her shoulder at him and he can’t quite read her expression. “Yes,” she says, “it is.”

“Why hasn’t it washed off?”

She sits up, pulling the sheet around her torso and looking chagrined. “You really haven’t studied that Ruaitan text very closely, have you, Chakotay?”

“No…”

“Okay,” she mumbles, looking up from under her lashes. “Well, it seems the ritual has more than one unexpected outcome. Presider Hartani explained it to me this morning.”

“I’m listening,” he prompts as she trails off.

“I’m told that if the Ruaitan delegation to _Voyager_ had determined we – you and I – were not a couple, we wouldn’t have been asked to undergo the ritual,” she begins. “It was our crew’s answers to their questions that convinced the delegates we were already bonded.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “How so?”

Kathryn waves her hand. “Apparently we behave just as a Ruaitan married couple does: we spend all our free time together, we share responsibilities and possessions and decisions, you’re the only person who calls me by my given name… And Tom Paris was quite vocal about how much I touch you.”

“You did say you thought all of this was somehow his fault,” Chakotay can’t help grinning.

“Right,” she mutters. “But it was Tuvok’s testimony that truly convinced them. According to him, we have the kind of bond that he has with T’Pel.”

She looks shy, and Chakotay reaches for her hand, winding his fingers into hers. It makes her smile.

“In any case,” she continues, “the ritual participants are supposed to be already officially married, and if they aren’t, the rite becomes the formal expression of that bond. But in rare cases, it not only bonds a couple, it also imprints them.”

“ _Imprints_ them?”

“The ink paintings,” she waves a hand. “The Rite of Inscription is one translation of the text. The Rite of _Imprinting_ is another. We’re not just wearing pretty painted designs that will wash off or fade away, Chakotay. You and I each painted the _same_ design on one another.”

“We did, huh?”

“Yes.”

He narrows his eyes. “What aren’t you telling me?”

She starts to blush.

“Hartani also said that when the bond is … consummated … for the first time, the design becomes … indelible.” Kathryn takes another breath. “It’s a good thing you like tattoos, Chakotay, because you just got another one.”

He stares at her, trying to work out if she’s joking. “These are permanent.”

“Yes.”

“They’re not going away.”

“No.”

Realising she’s serious, he starts to laugh.

She glares at him, clutching the sheet indignantly to her chest. “This is _funny_ to you?”

“Oh Kathryn,” he snorts, pulling her into his arms and burying his face in her hair. “You know, if you wanted to wear my mark there are less permanent ways to do it.”

Kathryn pulls back far enough to raise an eyebrow at him. “Are you telling me you want a divorce?”

“I don’t ever want to hear that word from your lips again,” Chakotay says, and kisses her before she can offer up that word or any other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Do you know what it is?”
> 
> Of course he did. 
> 
> But just to be absolutely certain, he gently grasped it around its edges and turned it slowly, committing to memory in an instant each of the symbols carved on its edges. 
> 
> Eternity.
> 
> Commitment.
> 
> Fidelity.
> 
> Two spirits joined as one.
> 
> And above them all, the symbol his forefathers had used to identify love. 
> 
> But not just any love. This symbol of three connected circles was reserved for the kind of love shared between two people who had made the irrevocable choice to bind their lives together in a permanent committed relationship. 
> 
> \- _Isabo’s Shirt_ , Kirsten Beyer


End file.
